The Jealous Kind (Holland Family Saga 2)

“No.”

“That’s Vick Atlas. The guy who looks like Mickey Mouse without ears is his old man. He’s supposed to be a nutcase. The son is a half-bubble off, too. They’re hooked up with the cathouses in Galveston.”

“Keep your eyes on me, Saber. Do not look at that table again. Do you hear me? And lower your voice.”

“Don’t get in a panic,” he replied, his fingers drumming the table. “You should go on medication. I won’t always be here to get you out of trouble.”

“Let’s go back to Cook’s,” I said. “Harrelson and his friends have probably left.”

Saber’s gaze shifted sideways and stayed there.

“What is it?” I said.

“Bogies at two o’clock.”

“Who?” I said, not wanting to look, my stomach on fire.

He grinned painfully. “Harrelson left Cook’s, all right. My ram-it-up-your-ass semaphore usually gets their attention when all else fails.”

GRADY AND HIS friends took a table by the jukebox, close to Carbo’s table, and Grady went over to shake hands with Vick Atlas. Then he returned to his table. At first I thought he was going to ignore me. I should have known better. He pointed at me, then said something to his friends.

“Don’t react,” Saber said. “Watch me and go with the flow. Look upon this as an opportunity. It’s time Harrelson got exposed in public.”

“Exposed for what?”

“I don’t know. A guy like that has all kinds of secrets. All you’ve got to do is tap on the right nerve. Relax. I’ve got it under control.”

The waitress brought a round of longneck beers to Harrelson’s table. He sipped from the bottle, hunching his shoulders forward as he told a story to his friends. Each time they laughed, he glanced at me, smiling. I heard a sound inside my head like someone tightening a treble string on a guitar. Harrelson got up and walked toward me. He wore black drapes and a thin crimson suede belt and tasseled loafers and a Hawaiian shirt with blue birds on it, the top of his shirt unbuttoned, a gold chain and cross around his neck. He fingered a pimple on his chest.

“What do you want, Grady?” I said.

“She eighty-sixed you?” he said.

“Who eighty-sixed me?”

“Valerie.”

“Where’d you get that?” I said, my heart turning to gelatin.

“She called me. She didn’t put it in those terms, but that was her drift.”

“You talked to Valerie?”

“What did I just say?”

“I don’t believe you.”

“So how do I know she gave you the gate? Want the rest of the story?”

“Not interested.”

“I bet. I motored on over and calmed her down.” He took a swig from his bottle. “She hadn’t been long-dicked in a while.”

I saw the look on Saber’s face, and felt his hand grab my forearm and hold it tight against the table. “You’re a lying bastard, Harrelson,” he said. “Go back with your greaseball friends.”

“What did you say?”

“Look at your threads,” Saber said. “You couldn’t cut it in the Corps, so you wear drapes and Mexican stomps and pretend you’re a hood. When did you start hanging with Mickey Mouse, Jr.? It’s a drop even to be seen with that guy. By the way, I got some pix of you getting it on with that broad, what’s-her-name. That’s sick stuff, man.”